Case Study
by Skathi
Summary: It's been four months since the day John Watson watched his best friend, Sherlock Holmes, take his life. Never once in that time has he believed the words Sherlock said to him during their final conversation.
1. Chapter 1

It was windy that afternoon, but it wouldn't much matter. He could see exactly where he would land and the pattern his blood would make on the pavement below. He could see John rounding the corner, looking up at him, his cries to stop. But Sherlock would do it. He would jump. He would fall and he would die.

* * *

"John."

John Watson jerked awake, twisted in his blankets and sweating. He blinked and looked around the sitting room. He'd taken to sleeping there, forsaking his bedroom. His psychiatrist had theories. Figured that he felt too safe in his bedroom, and feeling safe meant the end of it. Really meant that Sherlock Holmes was gone. John couldn't say, but he wanted to sleep on the sofa. At least for now.

He sat up and pinched the bridge of his nose, screwing his eyes shut. He was sure he'd heard his name. It wasn't the first time, he often herd his name being said. Usually it was conversational and not quite real. Other times it was too real. Far too real. He could hear the exact tenor and baritone pitch of the voice as though it was just across the room, the owner expecting an answer. Sometimes he would even look up, thinking he saw someone watching him. He always experienced a little thrill at these moments; half of his brain thinking nothing had changed, and the other half knowing things had changed, but still hoped for the best. But he was always disappointed. There was no one there. No ghost, no apparition, no spirit and certainly no Sherlock.

His phone jingled. Unlocking it, he saw an alert that he was due for another appointment in an hour. John hated going, but it put Mrs Hudson at ease. It was funny how often he went to see a therapist, not because he thought it was the right thing for him, but to put other's minds at ease. First Harry when he'd come back from Afghanistan. Now his kindly land-lady. John knew they wanted the best for him, and if helping him was helping them cope with their demons, who was he to argue?

Rolling off the couch in his jeans and jumper from yesterday, John winced in pain. His old battle wound had started playing up again. His therapist had theories about that too, but it sounded like a load of bullocks to John. Pain was pain.

"John?"

John's head snapped to attention. He'd definitely heard it that time. "Sh-…" he couldn't say the name. He stayed perfectly still, secretly hoping to hear it again. Only silence.

Fury welled up in John's chest. "Leave me alone!" he shouted to the empty room. "You're not here so just -…"

"John dear?"

John turned to see the very real Mrs Hudson standing in the doorway, he hands clasped loosely in front of her, with a look of concern on her sweet face.

"Mrs Hudson," he tugged at the hem of his jumper. "I'm so sorry, didn't mean to disturb you."

"Quite alright dear." Before he knew she would've asked for him to keep his voice down. "Are you ready to go? Shall I call you a taxi?"

"No. No thank you, I'll er… just get one on the way," he forced a smile. "Bit of fresh air, you know."

"Of course. Speaking of air, I had thought I might open up the windows while you're out," she went to the nearest one and undid the clasp as though to demonstrate what she meant. "Freshen the place up a bit. While I'm at it, why don't I take a pass at your kitchen, then perhaps…" she eyed the skull that still sat on the mantel piece.

"No thank you Mrs Hudson," John knew what she wanted to do. He picked up his coat to avoid her eye. She wanted to start collecting Sherlock's things and boxing them up. He knew Mycroft wanted to sort through his brother's odd collection of belongings, and Mrs Hudson wanted to find John a new flat-mate. She'd been very understanding that John couldn't afford the rent on his own, she'd been lenient, but it'd been four months. John, however, wouldn't let them touch Sherlock's things. "I'll have a go this afternoon." It was a bold-faced lie.

John strode along the street with his hands in his pockets and his head down. He wasn't really looking for a cab, but if he kept walking, he'd be late. Very late. He couldn't decide whether he cared or not.

"John."

Not again. John swung around. No one there. This had to stop, he knew. He hated what hearing his friend's voice did to him, even if it was just in his head. He ground his teeth, he wanted to shout abuse and profanity at Sherlock, only wishing the idiot could hear him. But not here. Not in the middle of the street. He swallowed the powerful urge to yell and hailed the next cab.

* * *

"Did you have the dream again?"

John surveyed the woman sitting across from him. She watched him carefully from over her clipboard, blue ballpoint pen in hand.

"You already know the answer," he said. He drummed his fingers on the worn arm of the chair he sat in.

"Tell me about it," her voice was neutral and soft. She thought it helped him to describe it every time.

He stared out the window. Couldn't she see this didn't help him? It only made him feel worse, gave him a terrible squeezing sensation in his chest, like he couldn't take a satisfying breath. He focused for a moment on his reflection in the foggy glass. He'd looked better. Some grey threaded his blonde hair and he had a gaunt look to him. He drew in as much air as he could and turned away from the window.

"It's always the same," he started. "The same as that day. He is standing on the roof of St. Bart's and he's on the phone with me. I ask him not to, but he doesn't listen and he jumps." John never told her that he always dreamed from Sherlock's point of view. "Look um…"

She looked up from her notes, but didn't stop writing. "Yes?"

"I didn't… I don't want to talk about that today. I uh…" he glanced around, still tapping his fingers on the chair. He watched her scribble a few more words, her notes, drawing her eye. When she looked down, he told her, "I keep hearing his voice."

She paused her notes and glanced at him. "Hearing his voice? Saying what?"

"My name, just my name. Like he always used too."

"And how do you feel when that happens?"

"I hate it!" he spat vehemently. "It's driving me mad. It's like, every time I try to close the door on him, he wedges his foot in. I can't…" he didn't know where he was going.

She jotted something down and laid her clipboard on her knees, leaning towards him. "John, do think perhaps you enjoy hearing -"

"Enjoy?" he asked incredulously. He tried to look away from her and word in her notes caught his eye. _Obsessed._ "I am not bloody well obsessed."

"John…"

"I think we're done," he stood and pulled his coat back on.

"You've still got 45 minutes left."

"Not today," he slammed the door behind him.

**A/N: I know I promised a sequel to Mildly Illogical but this came out of my fingers today. I'd also explain my hiatus, but it probably wouldn't make much difference. Anyway, if you haven't seen BBC's Sherlock you probably won't enjoy this. Or maybe you will, I dunno. None of it belongs to me, characters are based off the work of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the re-imagining is BBC's.**


	2. Chapter 2

John realized he'd been too abrupt after half an hour of blindly following his feet through the streets of central London. He'd go back next week, but he probably wouldn't apologize and she wouldn't expect him too. It wasn't the first time he'd stormed out of his session and he didn't know how long it would be before he could be trusted not too. Probably not until the last one, he thought ruefully. His temper flared every so often and he supposed it was better he took it out on his therapist, who was paid to have the occasional abuse hurled at her, instead of Mrs Hudson.

"John."

That bloody voice again. Angrily, he threw his fist, landing a punch solidly on the ancient brick wall beside him. He breathed deeply, listening for any trace, any lingering presence of Sherlock, but as usual none was to be found. Why today? he asked himself. He smirked humorlessly, relishing in the pain of his bleeding knuckles. Stood to reason, he supposed, that he'd be hearing that voice on the second anniversary of the day he'd first met Sherlock.

The pain in his hand mounted and with it, his anger abated. He looked up at the building he'd attacked, for some sign of where he was after having stopped paying attention to his route almost immediately after leaving the clinic. Above him loomed a tall building in grimy, old blocks of white stone. The battered sign proclaimed; _St. Bartholomew's Hospital_.

"Brilliant," he muttered to himself. He turned away and pointed himself in the direction of Baker Street. Ahead of him, a woman appeared from a side door of the hospital. She had long auburn hair drawn sensibly away from her face, she wore comfortable running shoes, but a posh blouse and skirt. She held her mobile up to her ear and laughed at something the person on the line said.

"Molly?" called John.

Molly Hooper looked up and gasped, dropping her mobile. Her doe-like eyes were wide and startled. She didn't look away from him as she bent to pick up her phone.

"Molly, it's John," he called again, trying to sound amiable.

Without a word, she turned on her heel and ran.

* * *

She'd always fancied Sherlock, that much had been obvious. John beat a steady pace home, mulling over what had happened. Molly Hooper had scarpered. John had begun to follow her, but she'd hailed a passing cab and had been driven out of sight.

He decided that, like him, Molly was probably still hurt and confused by Sherlock's sudden suicide. Didn't want to open up that can of worms, which John fully understood. She'd probably put the grieving behind her and didn't want to be reminded of that annoying, fantastic, git of a man. John often felt the same. Often thought it would be better if they'd never met. He'd've gone on with his dull civilian life, worked at his clinic, maybe married Sarah. The thought didn't excite him, but it would have had to be better than this. This waiting.

If he were truly honest with himself, he knew that's what he was doing. Going through the motions of daily life until… Until what? He'd seen the body, hadn't he? Watched him fall from the roof of the hospital, been to the service and visited the grave. What else was there? Perhaps he needed the psychiatrist more than he'd thought.

He passed a news-stand on the corner of Baker Street and stopped short. Sherlock stared at him. John snatched the paper for a closer look. It was today's copy of _The Sun_ and it had that ridiculous photo of Sherlock in his deerstalker cap splashed across the front. _Beneath the Genius Guise_ read the head-line. Calmly, John opened the paper and flipped to the appropriate page. It was a publication of the journal of Sherlock Holmes. John knew full well that Sherlock had never kept a journal. The type-written entries made no sense. Random phrases like '_I sometimes wish they'd figure out I'm not what I say I am…_' and '_Note to self: Come up with child-hood home for James Moriarty…_' jumped out at John. He closed the paper and placed it back on the pile. Slow news day, he thought.

The claims that Sherlock Holmes was a fraud were widely published in the days following his suicide. Sherlock had even said as much to John just before. Still, John clung firmly to the belief that Sherlock was what he'd always seemed.

"Always knew he was a fake," Sally Donovan had once said to John. "No body's that brilliant."

"Right," John had replied.

"You don't still believe in him, do you?"

"I do."

"You're a fool then."

"Right."

John's phone rang in his pocket as he climbed the stairs to 221B. The call display read Mycroft Holmes. John put the phone back in his pocket and let it ring out. If Mycroft really wanted to speak to him, then he would find a way.

He removed his jumper and jeans and stepped into the tiny, stall shower. He cranked the hot water as high as he could and rinsed the blood off his knuckles. The water stung and the grazes stung, but John didn't let up the heat. He shut his eyes and leaned his forehead against the cool shower wall. He heard his phone ring again over the hiss of the shower, but once again he ignored it.

It took twenty minutes for the hot water to run out. He stood in the cold water for ten more minutes until he started to shiver. Mrs Hudson wouldn't be pleased if she discovered he'd used up all the hot water, but he knew she wouldn't say anything. He wrapped a towel around himself and ambled into the kitchen to put the kettle on. Seemed like the thing to do. Distract himself with tea and telly. As the tea bag steeped, he turned on some game show he didn't know the name of. The players were filling in the blanks of a sentence with something they thought the panel of celebrity guests would say. The more matches they got, the more points. Sherlock would've aced it. It was nearly over by the time he remembered his tea, which had gone reasonably cold. He drank it anyway.

He retrieved his phone from his jeans pocket, which still lay in a heap on the bathroom floor. Four missed calls. All from Mycroft Holmes. No text messages though, Mycroft rarely sent texts. John's interest was piqued somewhat. Why was Mycroft calling him and not simply ambushing him with a lovely woman in a black sedan, as was his style? Probably wanted to ask about Sherlock's things again. John was not having that conversation today. He clicked the phone to silent and stowed it back in his pocket, deciding that if it was important enough, Mycroft would leave a message.

The rest of the afternoon found John laying belly down on the sofa, wrapped in his shower towel. It wasn't a good day. He went up and down and typically, the days that included an appointment were never good ones. Good days usually saw him getting up early, putting on fresh trousers and going out somewhere, and they certainly didn't include hearing voices in his head. Four times was nearly unprecedented, he realized with no small amount of chagrin. Surely it didn't mean anything though. Just one of those things.

He dozed lightly for several hours and when he awoke, it was nearly sundown. The pounding in his head reminded him that he hadn't eaten anything. Instead of going to the kitchen for a bit of toast, as was his intention, he found himself opening his laptop. He clicked to his blog, which had been notably silent for some time. He opened a new entry. He typed.

_Sherlock lied. Sherlock was a fake. Sherlock killed himself. Sherlock is dead._

Even to read the words back that he had written, John still thought they seemed false. He pursed his lips and deleted the lot. He started fresh.

_It has been three months and 26 days since Sherlock Holmes, my flat-mate, my colleague, my best friend, took his own life. I know I am not the only one that has grieved for him, but I also know that many of you, dear readers, have questioned what you know about this man. Rumors of his deceit and con-artistry have been tossed around like so many tennis balls and I know many of you have taken to this line of thought. Who could be this brilliant after all? Sherlock Holmes could and was as brilliant as he appeared, if not more so. It may appear that I speak only out of loyalty to a deceased friend, but I tell you now this is not the case. While he was my friend and I certainly remain loyal to him, I have truly never doubted him, even as he told me, in his own words, that he was a fraud. I, not unlike Sherlock himself, believe in what I see, what I can account for and I say that I can account for Sherlock's abilities. I suspect many of you will dismiss this entry, to which you have every right to do. But for those of you who have doubted the papers and the reports I say believe in what you know to be true. If you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. I have eliminated the possibility that Sherlock was a fake. I have always believed in Sherlock Holmes, and I always will._

__**A/N: You know the disclaimer, BBC owns this stuff based on the work of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, yada yada. Please review if you're enjoying this so far, I know its not a ton to base an opinion on, but still I'd like your feedback. I'll probably continue with it just because I'm having fun :)**


	3. Chapter 3

John's phone rang at quarter past midnight and he answered automatically.

"Ah, John," said Mycroft as though it was John that had called him.

"What is it Mycroft?" John asked warily.

"There is a matter we must discuss."

"What? Your brother's things again?"

"No, something of a rather more sensitive nature I'm afraid."

"Which is?"

"Not something I'd like to discuss at this moment."

A car horn honked outside the flat and John looked out the window to see the tell-tale black sedan he knew Mycroft had sent.

"Well I appreciate your calling first," he said in an attempt at light-heartedness.

"Take your time." The line went dead.

Ten minutes later, after putting on fresh clothes, John found himself in the back of the vehicle seated next to a gorgeous young woman. He'd not seen her before and, unlike her predecessor, she was not texting.

"What happened to Anthea?" he asked her.

She stared at him quizzically, "Whom?"

"Sorry, right. That was a… well what happened to the other woman?"

She smiled knowingly, "She has decided to… how do you say? Go in a different direction." Her voice was luxuriously French.

John didn't press for further details. He wasn't certain, but he thought that this was a veiled warning as to what might happen to anyone that crossed Mycroft Holmes; they would be sent in a 'different direction'.

As per usual, John was dropped off to meet with Mycroft in an unlikely place. This time, it was an empty schoolyard. Mycroft stood in front of the play equipment while a set of rusty, old swings creaked ominously behind him in the breeze. John strode towards him briskly with his chin up, putting on a decent facsimile of someone that was not clinically depressed.

"Mycroft," John greeted smoothly. "What's this all about?"

"I am afraid I have some troubling news, Dr. Watson." John didn't think Mycroft looked particularly troubled.

"I see," John waited for him to continue, but Mycroft stood silently. "May I inquire as to the nature?"

"It concerns the day my brother died."

John stiffened visibly. He considered simply leaving, finding his own way back to Baker Street. He knew Mycroft wouldn't stop him. He also knew Mycroft would come for him again. John stayed where he was but said nothing.

"As you are aware, Sherlock jumped from the roof of St. Bartholomew's Hospital," John had to keep himself from flinching, "Sherlock, however, was not the only casualty of that day."

John did not like where this was going.

"We found another body on the roof with a single exit wound through the back of the skull," John noted Mycroft's use of the word 'we'. "It was the body of James Moriarty."

The words hit John like a physical blow. Moriarty dead. Moriarty's body found where Sherlock had committed suicide. This changed everything. Did this mean Sherlock had been murdered? Had Moriarty pushed him? It seemed rather inelegant for Moriarty, but surely it was the most likely possibility.

As though he could hear John thinking, Mycroft supplied, "Moriarty was dead before Sherlock jumped."

"And you're telling me this now?" It was nearly impossible for John to keep his voice in control. He was well aware that he was digging his fingernails into his palms.

"There was no need for you to know until now."

"No need for… you can't be serious! Clearly, Moriarty had something to do with Sherlock's death!" John's voice was rising.

"Undoubtedly, however, it does not change the fact that Sherlock killed himself of his own volition. It was nothing to concern you with."

"And now?"

"And now, this," Mycroft handed John a mobile phone. It was Sherlock's and on the screen was a text message. It read;_ Watson will die. JM_

John felt an odd calm wash over him as he read. JM. James Moriarty. Somehow, John was not surprised. He'd been foolish to think that Moriarty would be dead. This sparked a small flame of hope in John's chest, which he quashed immediately. You saw him fall, he told himself. You saw the body.

"Why would he send this to your brother's phone?" John asked.

"Perhaps he knew it would reach you."

"Why are you showing me this?"

Mycroft sighed and fiddled with his cuffs. "Sherlock and I had never been exceedingly close, however, I felt my own sense of brotherly loyalty towards him. I suppose you might say that I am showing you because Sherlock would wish me to."

John was unconvinced, but didn't say so. He made to hand the mobile back to Mycroft, but Mycroft waved him away.

"Keep that, it may prove useful to you." Mycroft glanced over John's shoulder. John turned to see the beautiful French woman standing several yards away with her hands folded before her. "Good luck, John Watson."

"Come," beckoned the woman's voice and John obeyed. She led him back to the car and they rode in silence back to Baker Street.

* * *

John stationed himself in an armchair before the blank television, and stared at Sherlock's mobile. _Watson will die._ The meaning was clear, but its purpose wasn't. Moriarty liked games, John knew. Was that what this was? Some sort of trick to send John into a tailspin of panic? Why not send the message to John directly? Why warn him at all? John spun the phone between his hands, thinking. This message wasn't meant for him. So who was it meant for then?

What if this wasn't Moriarty? What if it was a simple coincidence that the sender had those initials? Maybe this message had nothing to do with him at all. Watson wasn't an uncommon name after all. It was certainly possible, wasn't it?

John slumped. That was the explanation. All a coincidence. Too bad, he found himself thinking. A death threat might've livened him up a bit. John smirked in spite of himself. He was turning into bloody Sherlock Holmes. The man wasn't happy unless a mysterious death was involved in his life. Something like this would've kept him on his toes.

Idly, John slid the unlock bar on the screen of Sherlock's home. Of course it was password protected. Mycroft must know, or have figured out, the code. John typed in four random digits. No such luck. That wasn't terribly surprising though, Sherlock would have a method to his passcode. John frowned. There had to be some kind of puzzle to it. Something Sherlock would know, but no one else would guess. Sherlock liked to show off how clever he thought he was, it could well be an obscure date or name. Four spaces to fill in… maybe the numbers corresponded to musical notes somehow. John tried four more random numbers, to no avail. He didn't know how Mycroft could think Sherlock's phone would be useful to him if he couldn't open it.

He felt drained, exhausted. It wasn't uncommon. He hadn't slept peacefully for some time now. His eyelids drooped, it was nearly two in the morning. He thought about moving to the sofa, but couldn't be bothered with getting up. John closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, realizing as he did so, he was going to have that bloody dream again.

* * *

A gentle tapping at the door roused John from his sleep. It was still early. He decided to ignore it and closed his eyes again. The tapping came again. If he stayed still, whoever it was would realize he wasn't coming to the door and would give up. As usual, John wasn't interested in having visitors. There was silence for a few moments, but the tapping came back, louder and more urgent now. Could they not understand that they were supposed to go away when the door wasn't answered?

The tapping was incessant now, non-stop. Frustrated, John rose from the armchair and stormed to the door. He flung it open, "Look I don't-"

Sherlock Holmes stood in the doorway, looking exactly the same; tall, lithe and angular. "Hello John."

John stared at him blandly. Then, he drew back his fist and punched Sherlock square in the face.

**A/N: Yep. You know you were expecting it. I'm aware this has been done to death, but I wanted to do mine. Review please! Opinions welcome.**


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock sat on the sofa with his head tilted back, pinching the bridge of his nose. He'd rather expected a warmer welcome. Though perhaps he couldn't entirely blame John for acting so rashly. Of course, if John had just used his brain and his damned eyes none of this would have been an issue.

"It's not broken," John said, bringing in a cold compress. "You should have some fine bruising though."

Sherlock could tell by his hoarse voice and blood-shot eyes that John had been crying moments ago. Or, more correctly, trying not to cry. He took the proffered compress and lay it across his nose, as John sat heavily beside him. Even from his peripheral vision, Sherlock could see the past few months had not been kind to John. The grey in his hair was clearly from emotional stress, possibly from grief, more likely because he didn't find his therapist at all helpful (obviously he had a therapist; he'd been sleeping on the sofa long term). The grey couldn't be from simple age advancement, fair-haired individuals didn't typically start to lose pigment in their hair until much later in life. Judging from the lines around John's mouth and the furrow between his eye brows, he hadn't had much cause to look terribly happy. Then there was the overall state of him, pallor of the skin, rumpled clothes that he'd obviously slept in, the slight arch of his spine, cracked and dry hands, and the air of sickliness all leant to the fact that John hadn't been taking very good care of himself. All obvious. The fact that John wouldn't meet his eye made it apparent, it wasn't all a coincidence, it had to do with Sherlock.

"So er… not dead?" John asked.

"Decidedly not," Sherlock replied.

"Right. And I'm not… dreaming? Drugged?

Sherlock caught John's eye, if only for a moment and smirked. "I should think not."

"Then I suppose… how could you fucking do this, Sherlock?" John voice shook with barely suppressed rage and Sherlock thought he looked as though he were resisting the urge to hit him again.

"Oh John, you saw the whole thing, but evidently you noticed nothing."

"That's not what I mean," John covered his mouth, his hand was shaking. "I mean, how could you have done this to me?" his voice was muffled.

Sherlock had known exactly what he meant. "It was necessary."

"Necessary?!" John exploded. He stood from the couch and shouted, "What could possibly be necessary about letting the people who care about you think that you've killed yourself? What possible good could it do to let m- us mourn you and then, just as we're all getting on with it, show up like nothing's happened? What situation called for this you arrogant, selfish sod?"

Sherlock tried very hard not to smile behind the compress, John may not be particularly astute, but surely he would notice that. "Come John, you and I both know that you were not getting on with it."

John dithered for a moment, opening and closing his mouth like a guppy, clearly at a loss of how to reply.

"But all that's done with. You can stop going to that therapist of yours now."

John groaned and scrubbed his face. "If anything, I think I'll need more intense therapy now. Best friend back from the dead? She'd have a field day," he mumbled. "Let me have a look," he gently removed the compress from Sherlock's face and assessed the damage he'd done. "You'll survive. I must've pulled my punch," he locked eyes with Sherlock's. "I won't make that mistake again."

Sherlock watched him stride into the kitchen to refresh the compress. He touched his fingers to his nose and cheeks. There would be some swelling and no doubt some bruising, but John was right; he had pulled his punch. "Would you be so kind as to put the kettle on?"

"Don't," John began sharply, "push your luck. I'm still bloody furious with you."

"Can I at least have my phone back?"

"Armchair."

Instead of going for the armchair, Sherlock swept it up off the floor below the armchair and typed in his four digit passcode. The message he'd been expecting was there, glowing benignly at him.

"So," John handed the compress back to Sherlock, who dabbed lightly at his face with it. "What was so… necessary?"

"Frankly, it doesn't matter at all. I was a fool to think he wouldn't notice."

"Say that again."

"It doesn't matter?" Sherlock knew exactly what John wanted to hear.

"No, the bit after that."

"I was a fool." Sherlock indulged John in savoring that moment.

"And why have you come back now? After all this time?"

"You know the answer to that."

"JM?"

"James Moriarty."

"I'd thought it was a coincidence." John sighed.

"Wishful thinking?"

John looked up at Sherlock and smiled, "Nope."

John's life must've been far more excruciating than Sherlock could visually deduce for him to hope that the threat meant him.

"So what do we plan to do?" John asked.

The reply was simple. "Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"This message was sent early yesterday, Moriarty will be hoping to instill panic. That's what he does; brings you down from the inside," Sherlock knew this truth all too well. "But not in me, he'll know I'd have him worked out, so you were the intended recipient of this message. He wants to fill you with paranoia so you look around every corner and fear every doorway. He wants you to know it when he finally does strike." Sherlock smiled, "But he's underestimated you, hasn't he John? You won't panic, in fact you were waiting for something like this and you're ready to face it head on."

"I'm going to hate myself for asking this, but how d'you know I've been waiting?"

"Because I know you John."

"Right."

"This has gone warm again," Sherlock held the compress out to John.

John's eyes flicked from the compress to Sherlock's face.

"Not good?" Sherlock asked.

"Very, _very _not good."

**A/N: Wanted to get the Sherlock and John banter just right, but I'm still not entirely happy. If only I was Mark Gatiss or Steven Moffat. But I'm not, so insert legal jargon about BBC owning Sherlock yada yada. Review if you like please.**


	5. Chapter 5

That night, he had the dream again, but he felt somewhat detached from it. This time he was himself, or was he? He saw things differently than he remembered, but not in a way he could exactly put into words. In the end, the dream didn't seem quite so damaging.

"John?"

John thrashed awake and found himself in his bed, somewhere he hadn't slept for weeks. At first he couldn't figure why he was there and then he saw Sherlock standing in the doorway, plain as day and wearing a red plaid dressing gown. A cascade of terror over the health of his own mind, sheer glee and utter confusion swept over him until he remembered. Sherlock, not dead. Sherlock, here.

John gaped and rubbed his eyes sleepily just to be sure. It was 8:00 in the morning. "Sherlock?" What is it?"

"That's for you," Sherlock pointed at a steaming mug of tea sitting atop the day's paper by John's bedside.

John looked confusedly at the tea and paper, then back to Sherlock. "For me what?"

"Oh, I don't know, to enjoy or whatever it is you do with the newspaper. How do you like your eggs?"

"Eggs?"

"Yes, eggs. For breakfast?"

"Oh," John looked at Sherlock's hopeful, and rather bruised face, "Er… sunny-side?"

"Right," Sherlock swept out of the room, still managing to look cool in his dressing gown. Come to think of it, John didn't think he'd ever seen Sherlock in pajamas. Or cooking breakfast for that matter. John guessed Sherlock was trying to make it up to him. Springing his un-death on him. Sherlock obviously wanted back in John's good graces. Though quite frankly, John thought he was being a bloody saint letting Sherlock kip at Baker Street last night.

John sipped the tea and gathered up the paper under one arm and brought the lot downstairs into the kitchen. It was true then, Sherlock was cooking. From the smell, it wasn't going well. John sat at the table, which had been cleared of Sherlock's mish mash of lab equipment about a month earlier, and watched. Lab equipment aside, Sherlock still looked like a mad scientist, especially as some of his dark curls were standing near on end.

John scanned the paper. More of the same; tragedy of young lives lost, a human interest story, some fluff piece. Nothing that drew John's eye.

A clatter on the table in front of him made him fold the paper. A plate sat before him arranged with a lumpy pile of scrambled eggs, two bits of crumbly, dry toast and something blackened and charred beyond recognition, though John suspected it was bacon. He looked up at Sherlock who looked distinctly pleased with himself. "Scrambled?"

Sherlock didn't have to say anything. He gave John his kicked puppy look. It wasn't so much a look, exactly. He turned his head to profile and tightened his face. Simple enough, but the effect made it looks as though he'd been physically wounded. John choked down every last bite of that breakfast.

Sherlock sat down kitty-corner to him and began fiddling with his mobile.

"Sherlock?" John asked after forcing back a rather revolting bite of eggs.

"Mm."

"What er… brought you back yesterday?"

Sherlock was silent, fingers tapping irritatingly across his phone. John had all but given up him answering when Sherlock looked up, not to John, but to the wall across from him. "Oh. That _is _interesting."

"Is it?"

"Hm? Oh, no. Not that, perfectly valid question, I'm surprised you didn't ask earlier," he went back to his phone, apparently any and all pretext of trying to win John back forgotten.

"And?"

"I've been following you. Obviously."

"You've been f-… wait, what? For how long?"

"I've been checking up on you every other day for four months."

"Every other day?"

"Well, it was every day at first, had to make sure you weren't going to off yourself."

"I wouldn't… I wasn't going to…" though the thought had crossed his mind at one point.

"At any rate, your meeting with Mycroft meant we were clearly going to have to make contact. Mycroft is a prick, but even he wouldn't have made you meet with him if it weren't necessary."

"Right then. Next time you go missing I'll just make sure someone threatens my life, shall I?"

"Oh John, don't take things so personally, people will begin to think you're dramatic."

"Dramatic? You think _I'm _dramatic? Bit rich coming from the man who faked his own death, don't you think?"

"If you recall, I certainly didn't say I wasn't dramatic. Do try to keep up."

John slammed his fist on the table, but it didn't seem to affect Sherlock in the slightest. "That's just it, isn't it? I've never been able to keep up with you and I never will," John's voice cracked. "You haven't the foggiest of what this is like, do you?"

"What is?" Sherlock asked, still engrossed in his phone.

"You. Coming back, changing everything. You always do that, you always change the rules."

"Rules are dull." Sherlock looked up from his phone and scanned John over. "You're upset."

"Of course I'm bloody well upset!" John shouted, he didn't know at exactly what point he'd got to his feet, but he tried his best to tower over Sherlock and intimidate some remorse into that smug face of his. "I've tried Sherlock! Tried to follow you wherever you lead, but for the one place I couldn't go and I was trying to come to terms with that."

Sherlock watched John breath heavily. "I'm sorry, John."

John sat, "Thanks, but you don't mean it."

"Everything I did was necessary."

There was that word again. 'Necessary', John was beginning to wonder if Sherlock actually knew the definition.

"They will pass."

"What will?" John asked, gathering his plate from the table.

"The mood-swings. Perfectly normal after going through emotional trauma."

John was about to deny any emotional trauma, but to do that would be to deny everything he'd just said.

* * *

John pulled a fresh jumper over his head, realizing it had been far too long since he'd done any laundry and that he should see too that soon. Today if possible. He went back downstairs, into the main portion of the flat and into the kitchen to clean up. Apparently, to Sherlock, making breakfast did not include doing dishes. There was a gentle rapping on the front door.

"John, the door."

John looked over his shoulder to see Sherlock sitting in a chair very proximal to the door. "You get it."

Sherlock got to his feet and walked into the kitchen. "Do use your brain John. What does everyone think of me?"

"That you're a complete twat?"

"That I'm dead," Sherlock replied, un-stung by the insult. "Suppose the woman at the door knows me? How do you think she'd react?"

"I was hoping you might get punched again," John answered, resignedly drying off his hands and going to the door.

Behind it stood the French woman from Mycroft's sedan. "Hello Doctor Watson."

"Oh! Er, hello. I'm sorry, but I never caught your name."

"Margaux," she replied with a smile.

"What brings you to Baker Street Margaux?"

"You do, or rather, this does," she held out John's mobile. "You left in the car."

"Thanks!" John hadn't even realized it had been missing. She pressed it into his palm. "That was really kind of you."

She laughed in an airy, fluttery sort of way, "It was no trouble, and I had hoped to speak to you."

"What about?"

Sherlock poked his head around the corner to get a look at this woman whom John so obviously found attractive. John blocked her mostly from view, but Sherlock got enough from her hands, legs and shoes.

John and the woman laughed about something that Sherlock was certain wasn't very amusing at all and said goodbye. John came back into the living space with a smile on his face.

"Margaux's asked me to dinner," he told Sherlock.

"You won't like her."

"If I asked you not to tell me, would you listen?"

"Of course not. She smokes regularly, doesn't enjoy reading, hates animals and constantly flirts with men, which I suspect she'll do on your date. And that's just the tip, if you hadn't been blocking her, I could've got more," he said the last part accusingly.

John sighed, "Why don't I just decide if I like her or not on our date tomorrow? She's beautiful and she's sweet."

"How sweet can she possibly be if Mycroft hired her?"

"Well let's have it."

"Have it?"

"You're dying to show me how clever you are, so let's hear how you pieced it all together."

"Smoker, obvious from her hands, perfectly manicured but yellowing at the finger tips, nothing you can do about the yellowing, I expect I would've seen the outline of a cigarette box in her jacket pocket too. She doesn't read, at least not much. Every avid reader you'll find signs of dryness on the fingertips, she hasn't any, even with moisturizer, there'd be something."

"Maybe she's got an e-reader?"

"Perhaps, but an item like that, she carry it around with her, especially if she used it frequently. Not exactly something she could fit into her tiny clutch purse. Then there's the animals. She hasn't got any pets, not a single hair on her tights, and she's recently stepped in some sort of debris that she's gone at with bleach. Small stain on the toe. An animal lover wouldn't have minded much, simply cleaned it off and got on with it, but she was angry enough to bleach her shoes and leave the bleach on for too long. It's possible, but unlikely, that she stepped in something other than animal leavings, woman like her is only likely to do most of her walking on foot paths or in parks and that's where the great majoristy of dogs are walked. Then there are her legs, waxed and made to look their best in sheer, black tights and pumps so they're her greatest weapon of flirtation. The way she had you going, she obviously does this a lot so she knows what to do and say from experience and if she's so experienced she's probably not going to stop for one date. She returned your phone to you, there's not many places you could lose your phone from your pocket and not notice. Not walking, you'd hear it hit the ground, so car. Maybe a cab, but they don't generally send around attractive, well dressed women to return lost items, so what's the most likely option? Mycroft's sedan."

"Impressive as always."

"You're still going to go out with her, aren't you?"

"Yes."

**A/N: Wanted to do a Sherlock pick apart deduction for ages, hope I did it some justice. Try to imagine Margaux having a French accent, I thought if I wrote it out, it'd be indecipherable or awful. And, as ever, Sherlock belongs to the BBC, based on the works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**


	6. Chapter 6

"And what, exactly, am I meant to do while you're on this date?"

John looked at Sherlock's reflection in the mirror, "Let me think… er… I don't care."

Sherlock scoffed and resumed pacing, watching John attempt a half Windsor on his tie. It was embarrassing really. John was… well suffice it to say John was middle-aged (Sherlock didn't know the exact number) and how many ties had the doctor worn a tie in his life? Surely enough to know how to put one on. Yet, here he was, on his third attempt and getting nowhere fast. "Where is it that you're going?"

"I've told you, I'm taking her to Hyde Park for a string quartet and a picnic dinner."

"Ugh, picnics. Cliché."

John ignored Sherlock and instead focused on his own reflection and trying to get his tie to look right. "There! Is that… oh bullocks," John untied the knot and began attempt number four.

"Oh give it here will you? It's exasperating watching this," Sherlock grabbed John by the shoulder and spun the smaller man to face him. With long, deft fingers, Sherlock had the tie knotted and central on John's neck within seconds.

"Right, well thanks."

Sherlock grunted and threw himself dramatically onto John's bed, bouncing slightly on the spring mattress.

"Don't look so woebegone, I'll be back in a few hours. You can torment me all you like then."

"And until then?"

"I'll leave you a deck of cards."

"I'm so pleased that my situation has you amused John."

"Quite frankly, you deserve it."

Sherlock raised his head off the bed and watched John pat at his hair in the mirror. "Perhaps I'll go for a bit of a stroll. You know, poke round a bit…" Sherlock said absently, trying to goad John into an interesting response more than anything.

"Don't you dare," John said turning away from his reflection. "Don't you leave this apartment Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock knew he couldn't, had given the very reasons himself. Still it was worth talking about if he could provoke John into that endearing mother hen thing he did. "Just one little stroll John, just round the block."

"Sherlock," John rubbed his temples. "If you set one toe outside that door, I swear I will add more purple to your face than you can afford."

Sherlock chuckled, "Yes mother."

John stiffened, "Right, perhaps I won't come home tonight."

The smile slid off Sherlock's face as John headed downstairs to the main floor of the flat. Sherlock sprang to his feet and followed, "What do you mean by that?"

John smirked, "Sherlock Holmes the genius doesn't know what it means when his mate doesn't come home after a date with a beautiful woman?" It was John's turn to chuckle.

Sherlock stood firmly at the foot of the stairs as John put on his coat. "Isn't there some sort of… three date protocol for that sort of thing?"

John shrugged mysteriously and gave a smile that obviously meant the number of dates didn't particularly matter. His phone alerted him to a text, which he read quickly. "Margaux's downstairs, I'll see you later," he paused. "Or perhaps I won't," he gave a wicked grin as he scooped up his earlier prepared picnic basket and shut the door behind him.

Sherlock went to the window to try and get a decent look at this woman. He couldn't see her face as the couple walked away. Her long dark hair trailed behind her in soft curls; she wore a tight, red dress that barely covered her thighs and a pair of carefully selected black heels that wouldn't put her over John's height. Clearly, she had the same thing in mind as John did.

* * *

Alright, so Sherlock was right; Margaux was a smoker, but she did it so very attractively and was considerate enough not to blow the fumes into John's face. And perhaps she did lean away when that dog passed by, but she leant into John, so that was alright. And maybe she did appear pretty clueless when he'd brought up Ayn Rand (though that one was a bit of stretch and he'd really only mentioned it to sound a bit clever), but she laughed at his jokes and put her hand lightly on his knee and certainly didn't have her eye on any other men. Granted, most of the other men in the park listening to the quartet were with wives and girlfriends, but still. Sherlock didn't know everything.

"John, I am having such a good time," she said prettily.

"Would you like another glass of wine?"

She nodded and smiled in a way that John thought he could fall in love with. He carefully refilled her glass with the malbec he'd selected for the night. They were nearly out, but that was alright; the music was nearly over.

Margaux blushed, "This wine is going straight to my head."

John thought it was a bit unlikely that a glass and a half of wine was causing a French woman to feel drunk, but the way she leaned towards him, he thought he knew the implication. He leaned forward.

"By God, it can't be John Watson?"

John and Margaux looked up simultaneously to see Sherlock striding towards them with a spirited grin plastered to his face.

John mouthed soundlessly, sorting through all the rude names he could shout at Sherlock that would indicate that he'd just interrupted a delicate moment and that he bloody well should be back at the flat.

Margaux found her words first, "Aren't you-…"

"I know what you're going to say; 'Aren't you that detective bloke that offed himself?'" Sherlock laughed. "Look like him, don't I? Imagine it? Me and him both mates with good Doctor Watson here?" Sherlock grabbed John by the shoulders and squeezed in what was apparently meant to be an affectionate way. "Name's Ben Barney," he said sitting down between Margaux and John.

"A pleasure Monsieur Barney," Margaux said extending a hand.

Sherlock grasped her hand and kissed it gently, "Enchanté mademoiselle. Comment appréciez-vous la musique?"

Margaux's eyes lit up, "You speak French?"

"Un petit peu. John, don't be rude, introduce your charming friend."

"Er… Ben, this is Margaux. Margaux, Ben," John wasn't sure how to react to this turn of events other than just to go with it.

"Margaux, such a lovely name with a lovely woman to go with it."

"You are too kind Monsieur Barney."

"Please do call me Ben."

Margaux giggled and batted her eyelashes at Sherlock.

John cleared his throat roughly, "So Ben, what brings you out to the park this evening," if looks could kill, John would've been throwing daggers at Sherlock right about now.

"Oh you know I can't resist a good violin."

"You know, I used to play the violin," Margaux told Sherlock.

"Really? I've always wanted to learn, but I think I'm a bit graceless for it, unlike you."

Oh now that was really pushing it, John knew that Sherlock could turn on the old charm to get something out of someone, but this was getting ridiculous.

And yet it seemed Margaux was buying it; she giggled again in that fluttery way of hers and shifted her legs just slightly so that her dress rose the smallest amount up her thigh. She did have extremely nice legs. "Oh I'm sure I wouldn't be able to do it now, it was quite some time ago."

"Now don't say that, bright young thing that you are, you'd be able to pick it back up in no time," Sherlock patted her hand that rested daintily on her leg.

Great, now he was getting touchy. What the hell did he think he was doing with his stupid eyes and mouth and that purple shirt that stretched across his chest and his sodding cool coat.

"Ben, won't your wife be looking for you?" John asked through gritted teeth.

"Didn't you know? Carol and I have split up," there was the kicked puppy look. "It was awful, but when I found out she was seeing someone else, I couldn't…" he breathed deeply and locked eyes with Margaux. "Carol was my fiancée actually, but that didn't make it less difficult."

"No, of course it didn't, you poor, poor man," Margaux reached out and put a gentle hand on Sherlock's cheek.

John thought he was going to vomit.

Sherlock smiled pitifully, "It's kind of you to say, I do appreciate your sympathy."

"Is there anything I can do for you?" Margaux asked.

Sherlock's smile became a charming grin, "May I ask the favour of a dance? That is," he looked over his shoulder at his friend, "if John doesn't mind." Sherlock winked.

Oh bloody fucking hell.

"Of course John won't mind," Margaux took Sherlock's hands in hers and rose gracefully to her feet.

John watched open mouthed as his date towed his best friend closer to the band where a few other couples were dancing. John was loathe to admit it, but Sherlock was a ruddy good dancer. He spun and twirled and glided Margaux across the grass as though it were the finest marble floor. They danced for twenty minutes. In the time, John tidied up the picnic, carefully replacing the almost empty wine bottle and the now empty glass in the basket along with the silverware and plates. Every so often he would glance up to see Sherlock smiling and Margaux with her lovely head tilted back in laughter.

Sod this. John was going home. Disgruntled and more than a little disappointed, John gathered up his things and headed to the roadway.

He walked along Kensington Road, undecided as to whether he should take the tube or a cab when he heard quick foot falls behind him. John turned to see Sherlock jogging to catch up with him.

"Why the rush John?"

"Oh you know bloody well why."

Sherlock was silent, pursing his lips together, trying not smile in amusement.

"You just couldn't stay put could you? Had to ruin my one night of fun I've had since… you know."

"Do I?"

"Of course you do; since you left, alright?"

"A fact you seem so fixated on and yet you refuse to ask the most obvious question."

"Which is?"

Sherlock chuckled by way of an answer.

They walked in silence for a few moments, both keeping their eyes out for an available cab.

"I was right, you know."

John sighed, "About what specifically? I already know about the smoking and the dogs and the books, so what else is there?"

"She was sitting with you, a charming, humorous and interesting man and yet she invited me back to her flat, not you."

"Yes, alright, you made your point, she's a flirt. To be fair, you were making it pretty easy for her."

"I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about the fact that she chose me over you. So I was right; you wouldn't be interested in a woman that's interested in me; she'd have to be quite mad."

They both laughed as Sherlock hailed a cab.

**A/N: I had a little bit of fun with this bit, seemed like something Sherlock might do; swoon a woman just to make a point. BBC handle this excellent series as originally created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Please review, I crave your thoughts.**


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